


Warm Like Coney Island

by hailtherandom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trip To Find Bucky, Steve Is Having A Rough Time Of It, Steve Rogers Feels, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam doesn’t press the matter, doesn’t berate Steve for his behavior or question why they didn’t spring for two rooms when there were more open. He just tugs on a well-worn pair of pajama bottoms and curls up on his side of the bed. Steve walks around the room, doing his usual security check, and then slips into bed next to him.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>There’s about nine inches of space between them, and it feels cold like the walls of a train, slick with ice and inches away from safety.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Quick little fic about Steve feeling alone after the events of CA:TWS and wanting comfort from his friends but never being sure how to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Like Coney Island

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archwrites (Arch)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arch/gifts).



> Written for [arch](http://archwrites.tumblr.com/) who wanted touch-starved Steve. Can be read as platonic or romantic, whichever you prefer.
> 
> All references to Natasha's life, apartment, and cat are based on the current run of Black Widow comics, which are incidentally great.

It’s cold.  
It’s always cold, of course it is. It burns cold, freezes his hand along the metal grip until it feels like every square inch of exposed skin is on fire. The wind whipping around him cuts like shards of ice, and the wall of the train offers no protection at all.  
Bucky’s hand is just a few inches from his own, tinged blue with hypothermia, and it never gets any closer no matter how many times Steve re-lives this moment. He can never catch Bucky’s hand, can never reach any part of him, can never do anything except cling to the train that he may well be stuck to, watching Bucky’s body shrink into a blue dot in the snow drifts below.  
Steve presses his forehead against the train wall, feels the burn of freezing metal numb his skin upon contact, and lets go himself.  
When he wakes up, he’s on the floor, a corner of the comforter on Sam’s guest bed pooled on top of his chest, with a stiff back and a vague ache in his shoulders. It’s cold on the floor.  
It always is.

Steve runs warmer than most people, courtesy of the serum. The Howling Commandos adored it, used to press their backs up against his as they all sat around a campfire heating and reheating their rations to make them palatable. Steve ran hotter than all the girls in the chorus lines, Morita used to say, and met the inevitable jeering with a smirk because sitting at Steve’s side was warmer than any spot around the fire.  
Sam always wears long sleeves when they go running. Washington DC is sweltering in the summer and only slightly less so at dawn when the sun hasn’t had the opportunity to bake the Mall, but every morning Sam pulls on a grey sweatshirt and sweats through it and complains about the heat on the walk back home.  
Steve would suggest that Sam wear a t-shirt instead, but he likes watching Sam peel his sweatshirt off, likes the way the damp fabric clings to Sam’s back and arms as he mumbles curses into the cotton.  
Sam is cold a lot. Steve supposes that it was warmer in Afghanistan.

Steve doesn’t get sick anymore. Doesn’t get laid up in bed for three days straight with a rattling cough, shivering under his threadbare blankets and losing his own ragged breaths in the sound of the radiator straining to heat his room in December. Doesn’t shiver violently waiting for his fever to break and sucking on ice cubes from the deli down the street that feel like they’re freezing him from inside out. Doesn’t even get a mild cold when September rolls around at the entire VA has to stock up on tissue boxes.  
Bucky used to come, though, when Steve got sick, and coax a little cup full of sickly-sweet medicine into his mouth, or drape his long coat over him when they ran out of blankets, or wrap one arm around Steve and pull him back flush against his chest, when snow lined the streets and the windows frosted over and Steve was lulled to sleep by the soft, rhythmic rush of breath against the back of his neck.  
Steve secretly thinks that he wouldn’t mind being just a little bit sick again, if it meant he could have Bucky’s cool hand against his forehead after feverish nightmares.

Steve cannot help the fact that, even with his and Sam’s combined salaries, even with his seventy-odd years of back pay, even with people falling over themselves to help Captain America, he still feels uneasy paying for two hotel rooms instead of one. He doesn’t bring it up and Sam doesn’t give any indication that he even notices, but he finds it hard to hand over his credit card for two king rooms, even after waving off the offer to use the employee discount.  
He feels a tiny sense of relief when the motel in Scenic Nowhere, Indiana only has one room available. Sam elbows him in the side and makes a joke about using all the hot water. Steve is acutely aware of the point of contact even after they crawl into their respective beds.  
A couple nights later, in Even More Scenic Nowhere, Missouri, where Steve catches the hotel attendant watching Sam out of the corner of his eye with a faint look of disdain buried under his corporate smile, they only have single rooms available and Steve all but slams a handful of cash on the counter and takes the key before the attendant even tries to ask his name for pretense's sake. Sam doesn’t press the matter, doesn’t berate Steve for his behavior or question why they didn’t spring for two rooms when there were more open. He just tugs on a well-worn pair of pajama bottoms and curls up on his side of the bed. Steve walks around the room, doing his usual security check, and then slips into bed next to him.  
There’s about nine inches of space between them, and it feels cold like the walls of a train, slick with ice and inches away from safety.

 

It’s still cold in New York in the fall, and Steve thinks he can see phantom frost crawling up the windows of Natasha’s apartment building in Little Ukraine, even though she swears up and down that it’s not supposed to snow for another week. Sam is taking a shower and Natasha is washing dishes from dinner and Steve knows he should help, but he’s stuck on the edge of the balcony outside, reimagining the skyline in shades of graphite and charcoal grey.  
He hears the slight tapping of flesh against concrete and he knows that Natasha’s standing behind him. Knows that she’s letting him know, knows that she could vault over him and land on the fire escape below without a single sound, but he feels her presence like a physical touch, warm and radiating in the cold October air.  
There’s a small meowing noise and a cat jumps up onto the ledge next to Steve. He glances at it and it nudges his head against his leg. He flinches away instinctively, and then remembers that he doesn’t have allergies anymore, so he runs his hand along its back a few times. It purrs and rubs against his side, and he smiles gently.  
“Sorry about that,” Natasha says softly.  
“I don’t mind,” Steve replies. The cat meows again, louder than before, and Steve runs the tips of his fingers over its head. “Is it yours?”  
Natasha grunts and sits down on the ledge, tucking her bare feet under her. “It’s cold out.”  
“It is,” Steve agrees. “I have it on good authority that it’s not supposed to snow, though.”  
He grins at her and she snorts softly, reaching out to stroke the cat’s head. “She’s not mine. Not really. Well, sort of.”  
“Sort of?”  
“I come out here sometimes and we talk about things. Work.”  
“I’m sure your cat has great insight on being a SHIELD agent.”  
One corner of Natasha’s mouth quirks upward. “No more SHIELD to do work for. I make my own jobs.” The cat butts its head against her knee, then climbs up into her lap. “Down, Liho.” The cat ignores her.  
“It must be nice,” Steve muses.  
“To make your own jobs?”  
“To have someone to talk to.” Steve shrugs. “To– just to talk to. Or sit with. Just be with.”  
Natasha’s gaze flickers toward the glass door. “Sam?”  
Steve shakes his head. “It’s different.”  
He doesn’t offer anything beyond that, and Natasha doesn’t ask for clarification. Eventually, Liho jumps down onto the balcony and disappears and Natasha uncurls herself. “Sam is probably done showering,” she says. “You should warm up.”  
She knows that he runs warm, but they both need an excuse, so Steve nods and vaults off of the ledge onto the balcony. Natasha doesn’t follow him into the apartment, but when he comes out of the bathroom later, slightly flushed and hair dripping down his back, she’s watching TV on the couch, feet tucked under Sam’s thigh. Sam is half asleep on the other side, head leaning back against the wall, eyes occasionally opening halfway before fluttering closed again. Steve stares at them for a long moment and something buried deep in his chest aches.  
He thinks Natasha whispers, “Good night, Steve,” when he turns to go to bed, but he can’t be sure.  
New York is cold like frozen metal and icy winds in the winter.

It’s cold on the floor in the dead of winter at three oh two in the morning. It’s cold like the trails Bucky Barnes leave that they keep chasing back and forth across the lower forty-eight states. It’s cold like the radiator is broken again and they don’t have the money to pay someone to fix it. It’s cold like his own fingertips pressed white against the exposed wood pulp of a pencil and it’s cold like the ice that shoots down his spine in his dreams when a bullet tears through his back.  
Steve closes his eyes tight against the muffled shouting of his nightmares, tries to cover his ears with hands that are trapped in blankets, and then all sound immediately cuts out. Steve holds his breath and carefully opens his eyes to see Sam’s face shift into focus above him. He licks his lower lip and closes his mouth, realizing with a flush of embarrassment that the shouting was coming from him.  
Sam backs up a little, sitting on his heels, and Steve pushes himself up into a sitting position. He rubs the back of his neck and hisses as the kinks in his shoulder strain in protest. He stretches his arms above his head and winces at the popping noises that jolt along his spine, then lets out a sigh of relief as he slumps back against the bed frame. Sam sits down next to him, legs splayed out in front of him. He’s clad only in boxers and Steve feels a slight pang of guilt at waking Sam up in the middle of the night.  
“You were yelling,” Sam says, as if reading his mind. “You had a nightmare, fell off the bed.”  
Steve laughs. There’s no trace of humor in it.  
“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asks.  
Steve shakes his head. “No, not really. Just…” He glances up at Sam, and lets his mouth fall closed because he can’t bring himself to say what he wants.  
And somehow, Sam knows anyway. He reaches up and tugs Steve’s comforter free and drapes it over their laps, then rests one hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve tenses immediately, then relaxes into it, letting his eyes fall closed.  
Sam squeezes a little. “Is this all muscle, or are you really this tense all the time?”  
“What?”  
“Here, sit up.” Steve lets Sam guide him upright, lets Sam turn him so he’s facing the wall, and Sam tucks the comforter around his front. Steve pulls it a little tighter around himself, curling inward just slightly.  
“C’mon, man, relax. It’s okay,” Sam says. “Everyone has nightmares. You’re okay. Come on, relax your shoulders a little for me?”  
Steve rolls his neck and allows his shoulders to sink down a little. He feels Sam kneel behind him, and then Sam’s fingers curl over his shoulders. Steve inhales sharply as Sam’s thumbs dig into the muscles just inside his shoulder blades, then lets out a low groan and melts back into Sam.  
“You gotta sit up a little bit,” Sam says, but he sounds like he’s smiling. Steve leans forward and presses his forehead to the wall, and Sam pushes himself up so that he can get better leverage. He works Steve’s shoulders looser, bit by bit, and Steve groans and keens as knots that he didn’t even know where knots get worked out.  
He thinks maybe he dozes off a little, because he suddenly becomes aware of Sam poking his side. “Steve, sit up.”  
“Hmm? Why?” Steve asks sleepily.  
“I wanna get your shirt off to do the rest of your back.”  
Steve smiles to himself. “You gonna buy me dinner first?” he asks, but raises his arms above his head anyway.  
Sam chuckles behind him and Steve realizes exactly how close Sam is right now when he feels a puff of air tickle his back. “Not at three thirty in the morning.” He tugs Steve’s shirt off and tosses it to the side, then pushes Steve back against the wall. Steve goes willingly this time and Sam’s hands start up their rhythm again, working down Steve’s spine and over the ridges of his ribs. Steve is vaguely aware that he should be embarrassed about the noises that he’s making, but Sam’s hands are warm and strong and it’s three thirty in the morning and he doesn’t care.  
Sam works his entire back over, then pulls one of Steve’s arms over his shoulders to help him up. Steve makes a tired, pleased noise and leans heavily on Sam. Sam laughs. “Okay, big guy. I’m not going anywhere.” Steve hums in agreement and allows Sam to guide him into bed, burying his face in the pillow. Sam throws the comforter over him, then tugs up the edge of the sheet and crawls in. He threads his arm under Steve’s and Steve presses back against Sam’s chest with a contented sigh.  
“Go to sleep, Steve,” Sam says gently.  
“Mhmmm.”  
His bed is warm like Coney Island in the summer, and it’s still warm when he wakes up to Sam smiling at him sleepily.


End file.
